Gilligan's Bar
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: A series of slice-of-life oneshots with a semi-coherent story centered around Gilligan's Bar, a popular hangout for henchmen. Rated M for hints of whatever I can believably reference in the bar setting. Full of OCs. Please read and review, if only to tell me what I've done incorrectly.
1. The Interview

George sat at a table at Gilligan's, nursing a beer. He felt like biting his nails in nervousness. For the umpteenth time, he looked at his watch. He sighed. It was barely two minutes since he'd last done so: ten after six. He leaned back in his chair, surveying the room. Bare walls that were no less bare for the photographs that covered them, a bartender who could've been eighty to look at, but probably wasn't over forty, a floor sticky and stained with spilled alcohol and the drunks that cluttered the corners… he'd been coming here for over a year, and it was still the most depressing place he knew, excepting a few apartments.

"Mr. Wilson?" He turned slowly, sizing up the man in front of him. He was five four, tops, which was enough to make him stand out here. The pleasant smile on his middle-aged features and extended hand only served to amplify the strangeness of his presence. George reached forward and grasped the hand, pulling the surprised newcomer down to the table.

"Knock it off, willya?" he hissed. "Guys here are gonna think I'm talkin' to a narc."

"S-Sure. Sorry. But you are George Wilson, right?"

He sighed. This guy was an idiot. "Yes. Now, whaddya say we take this somewhere quiet?" The man nodded as they stood to go.

It wasn't until they were halfway to a friend's place that George thought to ask the other's name.

"Oh, I'm Earnest."

"Course you are," George muttered, resisting the urge to smack himself in the forehead. This had been a terrible idea.

…

He was calmer by the time they arrived. His friend Mike wasn't the nicest of guys, but you could trust him. Earnest, whose last name, he'd learned, was Parker, was looking around in excited curiosity, scrawling in a little notepad. George soundlessly directed him to an overstuffed armchair that seemed one rip away from collapse. He sat down gingerly as George turned a wooden chair around and sat on it backwards, lacing his fingers over the back.

"So, this is all confidential, right? 'Cause I hadda promise my friend it was. This is his apartment."

Earnest nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. It's the only way we could get people to speak to."

_People?_ he thought. _Who're the others? Best not to ask._ Instead, he spread his hands wide and smiled sarcastically. "So," he said brightly. "Where d'ya wanna start?"

Earnest was fiddling around with a tape recorder. He looked up and smiled. "Don't worry. I'll take notes on it later, and I'll leave out any details that could point to your identity or those of anyone you talk about." He placed it on a small end table and extended a microphone. "Now, how'd you get into this line of work?"

He shrugged. "I knew a guy who knew a guy who specialized in this sorta thing."

"'This sort of thing?' What do you mean?"

"Well, y'see, it's like, ah, Supply n' Demand." He relaxed, warming to his subject. "There are lotsa guys that're outta work or in the fact'ries, and they'd kill for these jobs. (Not literally, y'know, 'cept a few…) Anyway, some guys are sorta like talent scouts. They goes around, and if they like ya, then they'll recommend ya ta someone good. If not… well, y'know, there ain't nothin' wrong wit' bein' in the streets, 'cept it's awful cold."

He paused, remembering his own stint of homelessness when he was young. Earnest gestured at him to go on, giving him a look that was not unsympathetic. He cleared his throat.

"Right, so my friend calls this guy, and the guy comes an' looks at me, and he puts the word out to some bosses he's in good with, an' one a' them gives me a second look. Next thing ya know, I got a offer. Now, I ain't been outta work for more than a coupla weeks at a time for more n'a year. So…" He trailed off.

Earnest nodded. "How many bosses have you worked for?"

That one was easy. "Three."

An eyebrow shot up. "Three? In a year?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, they gets arrested, and they kin fire ya, so act'lly, I haven't worked for a lot, not like some a the guys I know, who's worked for ten or eleven."

"Alright." He glanced at a sheet of questions. "Are there people who are better or worse to work for?"

"Well, yeah, of course. It's all about weighin' the risks. I mean, in Gotham or Metropolis, there's more of a chance you'll get caught, but the bosses know that, so they pay more. An' some a the bosses are mean. They'll hit ya for bein' late, or crackin' a joke at a bad time, so ya wanna avoid _them_. Plus, there're some guys, 'specially in Gotham, who're just nuts. I mean, the Joker'll shoot ya for forgettin' to laugh at somethin' he thinks is funny, or for laughin' at somethin' else."

"Given the choice, you would you work for?"

He thought about it. "Not sure, but prolly someone in Metropolis."

"Why?"

"'Cause Superman may beat ya up for breakin' the law, but he'll chat wit' ya too. He'll tell ya ta look into the rehabilitation program, and he'll offer ta give ya references. He's nice, ya know? But o course, since that don't matter to most guys, the pay's still through the roof."

"Do you ever think you're doing the wrong thing?"

"You mean, do I have a conscience? Yeah, of course. But it's just parta the job, shuttin' it off. Ya don't feel great about it, but that's life. Ya don't really have a choice, and you ain't seriously hurtin' mosta them. That's no excuse, I know, but I sleep at night just fine, even though I ain't no sociopath."

"Do you ever want to retire form henchwork?"

"Every day. But that's real rare, since they don't pay ya too much, and you end up blowin' mosta it on broads and booze."

"Are most henchmen single?"

"Yeah, 'cause once ya get married, ya don't wanna risk gettin' hurt or arrested, 'cause they need ya, right? There're always a few, though. I even met a coupla guys shacked up wit' henchgirls, 'cause they _get_ it, ya know?"

"Sure." Another look at the sheet. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Yep." He smiled dreamily. "Mel. 'S short for Melody. She sings. Wanna see a picture?" The other man nodded and he pulled out a small photo. They were at the carnival, sharing an order of cotton candy, laughing at some silly joke she'd made. It was unbelievably corny and childish, but he loved it anyway.

"Uh, didja want anythin' else?"

"Let's see… No, that's it." He stood and shook George's hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilson." Then he turned and left without a word.


	2. The Spy

The bar was near silent as he strode in. _'Keep cool, calm, and collected'_ he told himself. _'That's the only way to do this.'_ He walked up to the bar and casually ordered a shot of whiskey, sitting down and scanning the room. No one was looking at him. _'Good,'_ he thought, nearly shaking with excitement.

It was his first undercover mission. He'd been preparing for months, practicing darts, speech patterns, and even swallowing this watered-down swill. He was confident and ready. There was nothing much planned on this trip. He'd just sit there, gathering information, ready to act on any tip that he happened to overhear.

He shook himself to attention as a young man sat down next to him. He watched disapprovingly out of the corner of his eye as the stranger (who couldn't have been more than nineteen) ordered a scotch and soda. The boy turned to look at him and grinned, his childish dimples matching his friendly expression and profusion of freckles. His bright red hair only completed the picture of American innocence. It was an unsettling contrast with the dingy surroundings.

"So, you catch the game last night?" he asked, smiling good-naturedly.

He turned to stare at his whiskey. "'Fraid not," he muttered, hoping that the boy would go away.

Unfortunately, he only moved closer. "You shoulda seen it. It was great. The Rangers versus the Knicks."

"Sorry. I'm not really into baseball." He summoned (with no small effort) an apologetic smile. It seemed to work, as the youth soon lost interest and left.

He'd been sitting there for about five minutes when he heard it: a low, conspiring whisper. While not shifting position, he pricked his ears.

"- By the East Bank. Clock King's gonna make out tonight, I'm tellin' ya. I'm gettin' over there after this drink."

He had what he needed. He paid his tab and left.

…

Five minutes later, the laughter started.

"I can't believe he-"

"What a rube! Whatta rube!"

"Even my _gramma_ knows that the Knicks ain't baseball, an' thas' another thing-"

"Didja hear 'im talk?"

"-an' his nails? What kinda undercover cop gets a _manicure_ 'fore he comes in here?"

The loudest of all was Ronnie, the redheaded youth, whose face had gone as red as his hair. The free drinks given him by his friends didn't help his flushed cheeks.

A tall, thin man with dark hair and Arabian features stepped in a few minutes later. His look of bemusement set off a fresh round of guffaws. Once the snickering had died down, the newcomer asked what had happened.

"You tell 'im, Ronnie! You're gonna _love_ this, Al."

Ronnie got up, swaying slightly. "OK, so's this guy walks in, an' he's a narc. I mean, _duh._ He smells like vanilla shampoo an'-"

"Oh, looks like our young Ronnie has fallen in _love!_"

"Shut up, you! As I was sayin', he's got _manicured_ nails, I ain't even kiddin' ya. An' he comes in an' orders whiskey, only he doesn't drink it, see? By now, we all knows what's goin' on, so I decides to 'ave a little fun. So's I go over ta 'im, an' I say… I say…" Overcome by laughter, he was forced to stop for two minutes. Al patiently waited, grinning at what he'd heard thus far.

"OK, I'm fine now" he finally gasped, holding up a hand. "So's I go up to 'im, an' I ask 'im if he's seen the game last night, 'cept there was no game o' course. I mean, it was _Tuesday, _for cryin' out loud. An' he says no I ain't seen it, so who played? An' I tell 'im, I tell 'im it was the _Rangers_ an' the _Knicks._" Now Al couldn't resist, joining in the next round of laughter before getting his own drink.

…

He had been sitting outside of the East Bank for well over three hours. He had suspected something for two. Sighing, he spoke into his earpiece.

"Alfred? It's me. Back to the drawing board."

"Never to worry, master Bruce. I'm sure that we'll find the problem in no time."

Smiling, he cut the signal and took out his grappling hook, preparing to head home.


	3. Job Hunting

As most of the regulars knew, the bar's basement housed six pool tables, as well as a small, rickety card-table and a few chairs. Five men occupying the chairs were playing poker.

"OK, Ronnie. Bet's ta you," grunted a heavyset, blonde man with low bangs.

"Gee, thanks Vince. I musta missed that the first hunert times."

"Shut up and bet, kid." After a few moments of sullen silence (maintained mostly for dignity's sake), Ronnie raised by a dollar. As the man next to him folded, he decided to ask the question that had been gnawing at him all day.

"Sooo, guys," he drawled, overdoing his attempt to appear casual. "I been wonderin', whaddya think is the best place for a guy to get a-" His voice faltered. He cleared his throat self-consciously and finished: "a job."

"What's the matta wit' the one ya got?" asked George, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just… OK, I came to town to work, right?"

"Right."

"An' I needed the dough so bad I'd've worked for jus' about anybody, right?"

"Right." They knew where this was going.

"Well… I think that I mighta made a mistake. Cancel that, I made a _huge_ mistake!" he snapped, losing patience.

Vince shrugged indifferently. "Look, ev'erybody makes mistakes. Ya move on."

"Well, I don't wanna screw up again. Once is enough!" Making an effort to cool down, he laid down his cards: four of a kind. George wasn't the only one to notice his shaking hands as he reached forward to take the pot. He leaned forward.

"OK, how bad is it?"

Ronnie looked up, making a show of innocence. "How bad is what?"

"Whatever he's doin' to you!" His glare softened. "Go on, then."

After hesitating for a few significant seconds, Ronnie rolled up his sleeve. A neat line of bruises ran down the length of his tricep.

"There's more on the other arm," he muttered, looking down at the table. "An' my back, an'" -another pause, longer than the first- "other places."

George nodded and leaned back. "Thought so," he declared, lighting a cigarette. Ronnie hadn't looked up. Even Vince seemed a little moved.

"Well, OK," he said, forcing himself to sound annoyed. "But you're killin' me here, ya really are."

Ronnie smiled and began to shuffle. "So," he began as the men arranged their hands. "What do I need ta know?"

"First of all, are ya doin' it for yer money or yer life?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"Well, which is it?"

Ronnie paused thoughtfully. "Life. I got enough money fer now."

"'Kay, 'cause there's two kindsa bosses. Ya got the guys who pay good. Lotsa time off, benefits even. Then ya got the safe guys. They ain't crazy, they ain't out ta rule the world, they ain't chased by…" Everyone paused for a moment, each man surreptitiously crossing himself. "Well, ya know. The question is where on the crazy-poor scale ya wanna fall."

"I guess I wouldn't mind workin' for someone low-end, so long as he was OK. Ya know, for onna them."

"Sounds good. Anyone knowa any openins like dat? Fer myself, I can say wit-out a shada of a doubt that Crazy Quilt's hirin'."

From there, the names started to roll in: so-and-so could get you an interview with the Clock King, the Trickster was looking for new blood (as was the Prankster), Toyman was putting out ads, etc. Even Vince spoke up to say that he had a brother who had an in with Tigershark. Ronnie wrote down names, addresses, and phone numbers. They continued in this fashion for twelve minutes before they were interrupted.

"Hey guys, what's up? Can a guy get in to lose some money?" Ronnie stood up and smiled.

"Sure thing, Al. I got what I came fer, anyways. Jus' one thing, though: why're you always so late ta everything?"

Al shrugged. "Call it a quirk. My mom says I was even _born_ late."

He settled down among his laughing buddies, waving goodbye to Ronnie as the youngster dashed upstairs.


	4. Rite of Passage

It was midday, so the bar was nearly empty. Only Al and the bartender were visible on the black-and-white security camera that aspired to theft prevention. (In reality, it was the knowledge that the bartender carried a shotgun that kept men's hands in their own pockets.)

The door swung open with a loud thwack of wood-on-wood, admitting a rush of cool autumn air and a procession of cheering young men. Recognizing the group, Al raised a hand from his customary Manhattan in greeting. George headed the crowd, and from his position gleaned such authority as was available in controlling the mob. He turned around, calling for silence and giving a firm glare of remonstrance until it eventually came.

Turning back to face the bar, he cleared his throat and cried out, "Attention, ye patrons of th' bar. I'd like ta announce tha' on dis day, da sebenteent' a' October, onna our own young patrons has officially, unequivocally, become a man. Let us now pay our respects ta mister Ronnie Harris, who yesserday, in sight of witnesses, wen' home an' scored wit' a woman!"

Laughing, Al joined in the resultant round of cheers, whistles, and catcalls. An abashed, bright-red Ronnie was soon dragged onto the scene to take his bows. After enduring the embarrassment for approximately two minutes, he proceeded to the bar at a pace hitherto unmatched by another patron.

"A-a scotch an' soda, p-please" he stuttered, looking down at his shaking knees.

The bartender chuckled. "Actually, in view of Mr. Harris' accomplishments, I daresay that I shall declare this round 'on the house,'" he announced, his grin widening as Ronnie's face turned from cherry to beet red. Unfortunately, the boy's stuttering denial was drowned out by another series of cheers.

…

Five minutes later, the young men were settled and Ronnie's drink remained untouched. He had been slapped on the back innumerable times, congratulated continuously, and exposed to such unsettling news as, "I was beginnin' ta tink ya were… tha' way… not dat there's anythin' wrong wit' dat, o' course." He was desperately beginning to look for escape routes, both conversationally and literally. The barman followed his eye and leaned forward.

"Sorry, but no," he whispered mischievously. "I've served countless young men in your situation, many younger than you, and not a single one has managed to leave these confines without the consent of their peers." Ronnie sighed and put his head (now a brilliant scarlet) into his sweat-smeared hands.

"I'm never showin' my face agin. I'm not goona make it…" he chanted under his breath, closing his eyes in frustration and raising them only when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He tried to shake it away, but it wouldn't move. He looked up to see Al's dark eyes inspecting his red-rimmed pupils.

"Whaddya want?" he asked, already moving away.

"We're just happy for you, you know," he murmured. "Play along. We've all been there." He backed away and Ronnie straightened up. He hadn't noticed it, but the crowd around him had been listening to Al, their sound descending from a roar to a gentle susurrus. It wasn't quiet, and they were still uncomfortably close, but it seemed as though it was expected that _someone_ say _something_.

Finally, Vince took the initiative. He strode up to Ronnie, pushing through an assortment of other men to do so. He sat down next to him, put one hand conspiratorially on his shoulder, and leaned in with an ironical smile.

"So," he said in a loud stage whisper. "How was she?"

Instantly, the sound was back as acquaintances and friends alike clamored that he not keep them in suspense. Joining in the laughter, he succeeded in getting their attention.

"OK, OK," he chortled. "So, she's got melons like dis, an'-"

"Please, my granpa's got bigger."

"Shut yer hole, willya? Anyways, she's gotta be a ten (a' least), an' she did stuff that'd knock yer eyes out…"


	5. Pandering

The patrons at Gilligan's always hated it when a police officer made it his business to enter the bar. On this day, conversation simmered, its boil forming a vaguely unsettling backdrop for the gentleman's visit.

There was a kind of vaguely unsettling air to the man himself, a kind of ambient arrogance and overextension of pride that made his prodigious girth seem all the larger.

Ignoring the hostility, Officer Moore sauntered up to the bar. "Mornin', Johnnie," he said, grinning with an odious familiarity.

The barkeep leisurely looked up from the glass he was watching, his eyes betraying a trace of contempt. "Good morning, officer." He set the glass down on the table beside him. "Is there something with which I can help you?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," he replied, removing a fat cigar from between his sausage-like lips. He reached behind the bar to clap the thinner man on the back, filling the other's face with smoke. "You can get me a drink. Beer. And none of that cheap stuff, either."

Growing slightly pale, the barman forced a laugh and nodded. Using his head to gesture towards the tap, he drew out of the lawman's malodorous embrace. He quickly drew a "clean" glass from a shelf under the bar and began to fill it at the tap.

"Uh-uh, Johnnie. I _said_ not the cheap stuff. That means nothing watered down either, huh? Come on, get me something real."

The barman wordlessly nodded and pulled a bottle from a cabinet behind him. Moore smiled and crossed his arms in satisfaction, so the beer was soon transferred from the bottle to the glass. He quaffed it easily, and then demanded another.

After thirteen such drinks, he declared himself satisfied and left, leaving a thick fog of black cigar smoke in the air. Remaining silent, in part out of a lack of trust in his ability to speak, the barkeep opened a window.

…

The swaggering intruder had not been gone ten minutes before the volume of chatter returned to normal and Gilligan's regular patrons again approached the bar.

"Sooooo," drawled Ronnie, looking up from his scotch and soda, "why'd ya give _'im_ free drinks, then?"

George snorted. "So's he won't set the narcs on us, ya twit! We give 'im what 'e wants, an' 'e gets da fuzz ta leave us alone."

"Oh," muttered Ronnie. "Sorry. Shoulda guessed."

"It's no trouble, my boy," sighed the barkeep. "Frankly, I barely understand it myself. It seems odd that a few free drinks can persuade a man such as that to forgo the supposed ethics of his profession. I suppose that it's a reflection of the growing corruption of law enforcement, especially in this state." Without turning to look, he could sense the look of astonishment on Ronnie's face. "While we're on the subject of things of which you are not aware, I always speak this way."

Ronnie had the sense to blush. After an awkward pause, he looked up, a new thought deflecting his embarrassment.

"So, your name's Johnnie, is it?"

"You would do well to refer to me as John."

"Ah, but Johnnie's so friendly an' familia'. 'Sides, I don'-"

"_You would do well to refer to me as John."_

"Yessir. John. Sir."

"Good. Now, shall I put a head on that?"


	6. Disappointment

He was in a seldom-used back room. Faint, shimmering cobwebs adorned every corner of the chamber as lace embroidery hangs at the edges of some fine piece of linen. Dust motes swirled in spirals, glinting in what light came in through the dirt-filigreed windows. The faint scratches of rats reached the room as a sharp tapping, much like the click of a pocket watch, snapped shut by an incredibly punctual gentleman. The late afternoon seemed to murmur, to insinuate by whispers the joy of sleep and relaxation.

The softness of these surroundings was offset only by the rough, frayed rope that he was twisting into a noose.

He wasn't upset, or frightened, or anything else. It seemed as though the afternoon had infected him with its calm detachment, allowing him to calmly and rationally plan what he was about to do.

After all, every piece of evidence available supported his decision. He'd once been young and full of promise, a university student. He was on the brink of figuring it out, graduating, settling down in the suburbs, opening his own moderately lucrative practice. Then he did something phenomenally stupid. He couldn't even remember what his reasoning had been (although it was probably some sort of excuse for his thrill-seeking). All he knew was that he hadn't thought that he'd be caught. But he was, and with the resulting censure he faced he lost his place in school, his job offers, and the support of his family. He couldn't blame them, really.

His life had been a slow spiral downward ever since. He'd drifted from city to city, looking for increasingly degrading work, asking only that he be allowed to rebuild his integrity somehow, to help people. Where had he ended up? Watering down swill in Borgia. Lying and cheating just to keep the filthy clothes on his back. Yes, it was the right decision. He was sure of it.

The work itself was relatively straightforward. He finished the noose and threw it over a beam, raising it so that his feet wouldn't touch the floor. Then, he moved a chair that he could kick away easily under the dangling rope. He climbed up and tightened the knot around his neck. He kicked the back of the chair, toppling it and sending it flying two feet away.

…

Gilligan's had been closed all day, and its patrons were getting restless. They lounged at its front door, smoking cigarettes and complaining.

"Whaddya think is goin' on?" asked Ronnie.

Vince shrugged. "Beats hell outta me. Johnnie's been pretty close-mouthed 'bout it."

Ronnie stood, a gleam of determination in his bright eyes. "Well, let's jus' go in an' ask 'im. I mean," he added, raising his voice. "Are we jus' gonna sit aroun' an' do nuthin', or we gonna go in?"

Nods and grunts of assent followed his words, and soon, the group had picked the door's lock and marched into the bar.

"Joh-onn! Oh, Johnnie boy! Where aaare ya?"

"Come out, come out, where'er ya are!"

"Hey guys, I'm gonna check the back room!"

The raucous laughter continued for another two minutes. Then, there was a shriek.

"George! What's wrong?" Instantly, five men raced after their friend into the storage room, where they could only stare in shock at the tableau awaiting them.

"Well," whispered Vince. "Look a' the bright side. We found John."


	7. Confrontation

The new bartender was… dour. Honestly, Gilligan's patrons couldn't blame him. The entire building had developed a dark, gloomy atmosphere. They only returned each day out of a vague sense of loyalty, the intended recipient of which could not have been clearly defined by anyone present.

For his part, Officer Moore was all but oblivious to the effects of the staffing change. If anything, he had become less sensitive as a result of John's death. He continued to get his free drinks, but he often followed them up with "accidental" collisions with the paying customers that invariably led to spilled drinks. The men he antagonized didn't react. They just stared at him in innocent confusion. This just made him more determined to get a reaction.

The stalemate continued for roughly three weeks before it happened. Moore strolled up to the bar, loudly insulted the quality of beer provided on his last visit, then demanded a glass of that same vintage. As he turned to leave, he spotted Vince and George quietly nursing their drinks at a nearby table. Grinning, he sauntered to stand behind George.

"George, right? George Wilson?" George nodded and whispered, "Yessir."

"Ha! Y'know, George, we've got the most interesting file on you down at the station. You should really take a look sometime. It's full of all kinds of things. Stealing, drunk driving, complaints from the IRS- it's funny, you know." Here he leaned in closer. "I could've sworn that there's something out for your arrest right now. Something about slandering an officer of the law. I heard that you spoke to the press, confessed to some interesting crimes."

George stiffened. "Thassa lie."

"Are you suggesting that I'm lying?"

"N-no s-sir, jus' mistak-"

"LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU, SCUM!" George quickly spun around and stood. "That's better. Now, I _know_ that you said something, and I'm going to find out what, and until I do, I expect you to-"

That's when Vince decked him.

…

The desk sergeant didn't even look up when Officer Moore came in, grunting that he had one in the car. She just shrugged and buzzed Hank to take care of it. She _did_, however, look up when he came back in a minute later.

"Call the hospital," he said. "He's going to need some stitches."

She nodded and made the call, looking at Officer Moore out of the corner of her eye. "Care to explain?" she asked.

He shrugged. "You know how they are. I told him to put his hands up an' he didn't, so I chased him." He chuckled. "Ended up having to tackle the bastard. Might've bruised his forehead a little, but it couldn't be helped. Really."

"Mmm-hmmm," she said, pulling some papers out of her desk and trying to ignore the man's slurred speech and alcohol-infused breath. "That explains the black eye. And what exactly did you catch this man doing?"

"Driving drunk. It's his fourth offense, and there's a warrant out for his arrest anyways."

"I see. Awfully good of you to know that."

"Well, I have to. 'S my job."

She smiled. "Of course. Just one more question. What's his name?"

Struggling not to topple in his chair, Moore affected a relaxed backward lean. "Vincent Hardwick."


	8. Christmas

Al ducked into the bar. _'Late again,'_ he couldn't help but think. The celebration was already in full swing.

The reason for the frivolities was threefold: Officer Moore had been sighted bothering the patrons of a different bar, signifying that he'd moved on; Ronnie, who'd been injured in a recent fight, was out of his crutches; and it was around time for the Christmas party anyway.

"What I've never unnerstood 's why they gotta 'ave all the depressin' holidays in winner," Ronnie joked. "I mean, 's bad enough that ya might not 'ave a fam'ly at Christmas or a girlfriend at Valentines. Does it need ta be _cold_, too?"

George looked up from his drink. "Maybe they're depressin' 'cause they're in winner. I mean, cold makes erryone mis'rable. Look at the suici'e rate in Finland, for Chrissakes." There followed a round of good-natured chatter to match the next round of drinks.

The alcohol and conversation flowed until well past midnight. Men began to peel off from the main group in boisterous groups or (occasionally) intimate pairs. Soon, no one remained but the bartender, Ronnie, George, Al, and one heavyset gentleman unable to regain his footing. As the drunk's curses turned to snores, Al stood to pay his tab.

"Hey," he said, not gesturing or even looking at the bartender. With a silent nod, the skinny blond set down the glass he was cleaning and walked over.

"Twenty-one seventy-six."

"For seven lukewarm beers?"

"No, for seven lukewarm beers, two shots of tepid whiskey, and one thoroughly watered-down cognac," replied the young man without missing a beat.

Grumbling, Al paid his tab with a perceptibly low tip. As he was about to leave, he turned around.

"Actually, I'd like to order another round, for everyone. Ah, except that guy in the corner. I'll pay now," he added hastily. The bartender nodded his approval and poured the drinks. "One for you, too, kid." Al smiled and patted his grimy t-shirt. His only response was another curt nod. Al had to feel sorry for him: he was just new.

Al waited for the drinks to reach their recipients, then raised his own glass.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to give a toast.

Our lives are not always easy. We're shot at, reviled, and beaten by cops and bosses alike. Our relationships can be near impossible. We're constantly saying goodbye to old friends…" (He glanced at George.) "…And hello to new ones." (Everyone looked at the bartender.) "Our lives are always changing, and seldom for the better.

However, there are some things that remain constant. We have our families, or at least our friends. And we have this." (He gestured about.) "It's not a home, and it's not always perfect, but… we can be ourselves here. And I hope that there will always be a place like this for people like us. We need it.

To Gilligan's Bar!"

"To Gilligan's!" repeated the ragged chorus, and, despite the cold, the drink, and the exhaustion they all faced, there was something bright and alive in it.

* * *

**Sorry for the corny ending, but I worried that this was dragging on and getting too serious, so I decided to cut it short. If anyone wants to see this OCs again, just PM me.**


End file.
